


You Are Ever-Changing

by Anonymous



Series: Like Absinthe [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Loki's searching for the meaning of life, Loneliness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 12:12:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1510028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brown haired, brown eyed, boy-next-door, animal lover Mark Lloyd. Fiery, playful, red-headed bartender Lukas Frode. Black haired, green eyed, all leather-hunger-menace Loki Odinson.</p><p>Ragnar had left them all behind like a butterfly leaves behind its chrysalis. Forced to flee and evolve to hide, time and time again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are Ever-Changing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Artmetica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artmetica/gifts).



> This work is wholly un-betaed, mostly because I've bothered Mizstorge enough times. If you wanna point mistakes or suggestions out (even on something like sentence structure or repeated words), be my guest :)

Spring was to Italy as summer was to his dear motherland, in Ragnar's honest opinion. It was the patina that suited it best: great weather, beautiful sights, fewer tourists, and the sheer exuberance of everything alive. 

He'd ended up here by accident.

Well, no, that wasn't right. He'd come to Italy from Norway, fleeing the bitterly cold winter, with its faded sky, short days, and seemingly everlasting greyish twilight that trapped him in unpleasant memories of his past mistakes.

Norway wasn't for the faint of heart, and Ragnar was done proving himself over and over again when nobody cared to watch.

Life had become a bit stale, and his boss, who, for all the Viking hard-ass exterior he worked so hard to project, was actually a teddy bear, had called him in afterhours one day, handed him a huge backpack, his last paycheck, and a plane ticket to Spain, and told him that travel was good for the soul.

Ragnar had taken the out for what it was.

Nine or ten months later, he'd ran out of money while in Milan, Italy. With his connections to his ex-bosses in the US, he'd landed a cushy job in the local mafia. Nothing too big or fancy; just a part-time thug for a small town protection racket. But it paid well and required little mental effort. He would have been annoyed at how they unknowingly squandered his brain and knowledge, except he'd already done the whole bury-himself-in-stimulating-work for two years before, and he'd tired of it.

Since his higher brain functions weren't engaged by his job, and Ragnar was the kind of guy who got bored easily, he'd decided to learn the language. Once he spoke it more or less fluently, he toured around in museums or other historical places.

He had a lot of time to waste (some forty or fifty years, if he took care of his weak body), and he would use it well.

* * *

Ragnar arrived home with his front entirely covered in blood. Even his hair, normally curly, was so drenched in it that the weight pulled it straight.

As soon as he opened his door, his sometimes-cat came to greet him (or to demand he put some food in her bowl, Ragnar wasn't as fluent in Meowian as he was in Italian), and he shooed her away. The last thing he needed was her getting the red goo all over her puffy white fur and, afterwards, rubbing it off on his furniture.

Freya glared at him and meowed again, lower and drawn out.

Ragnar sighed and wiped his cleaner hand on the back of his leg. He bent over and scratched her head gently.

Purring, she reached up and held his finger between her tiny pointy teeth, not quite biting, in their little greeting ritual.

Etiquette satisfied Ragnar, pushed her aside and carefully walked into his bathroom. The first thing he did was wash his hands. Second, take out his phone and text ' _È fatto,_ ' to his boss. Sighing tiredly, he got into the shower, clothed and all, and turned it on, letting the rain cleanse him.

There was nothing he hated more than intimidation jobs. Especially those that involved the mutilation of innocent animals… At least it had been a sheep this time; last one had been a dog.

Ragnar shuddered under the cold water, hunched over. He watched the red-tinted water drain down the pipe, biting his lip. When the red became a light pink, he changed the temperature to hot and began undressing.

His hair, long enough to reach between his shoulders when dry, now fell—dripped—down to his waist. Ragnar grabbed the shampoo and squeezed out an extra-healthy dollop, massaging it into the matted mess, careful not to dislodge the hair extensions.

The foam that formed was dark pink.

When he rinsed, he was relieved to find that the water and soap had revealed the carefully calculated golden color of the curls. It wasn't the first time that his hair had got soaked in blood, but he always had the irrational fear that it would dye it red; that he'd have to carry the indelible mark of his transgressions. He shampooed it again, for good measure, before starting on his body.

His right knee hurt as he leaned over to wash his feet. He'd taken a hit three months before, and it still hadn't healed; he might have to get it checked by a doctor. He hated his human constitution. So weak. So slow in mending. Also, his toenails grew at an alarming speed. He'd have to trim them again soon.

Ragnar finished rinsing the soap off and turned off the now tepid water. Stupid cheap heater… Sighing, he wrung his hair and put a towel around his head to catch the water droplets as they fell, before stepping out onto the floor mat. He slid into his towel robe, rubbing his face into the softness.

The mirror was fogged up, and he left it that way, not wanting to see the wrinkles that had formed in the corners of his eyes. Four years of humanity and he already had wrinkles. He didn't want to know, should he regain immortality right now, how many centuries he would have lost in this careless aging… He did rub his towel sleeve on the top bit, clearing it of the lingering whiteness. The smudge of clear reflection among the white was just big enough to check on his roots.

Hm. He'd have to bleach them in about another week. But hey, at least he'd finally achieved the light blonde of the Aesir ideal. If only his brother or the father than had renounced Ragnar could see him now… They'd laugh at him for resorting to mortals' tricks, just as they'd laughed when he changed his hair color with magic.

For some reason, the thought brought a nostalgic smile to his face, rather than a bitter frown.

Ragnar's stomach rumbled audibly, and he padded to the kitchen, carrying the bloodied and wet clothes with him. He put the kettle on to heat up some water while he put the clothes in the washing machine, setting the washing to start in twelve hours, as he was not willing to stay awake until it ended. He killed some more time by refilling Freya's food bowl and changing her water. Then he opened a cabinet and withdrew a packet of instant cup ramen.

Not particularly delicious, but it filled him well enough and was convenient to make.

Once the kettle boiled, he poured the hot water into the cup and rested his forehead on his crossed forearms. Now came the worst part: the waiting.

He gave up after two minutes. He'd eaten cup ramen at two minutes before, and it hadn't been half bad. Besides, he was sleepy and hungry enough that the texture wouldn't matter, as long as the food got into his belly.

As the broth was still hot enough to scald him, he fetched three ice cubes from the nearly empty fridge and dropped them inside. He stirred the unholy mixture with a fork until the ice fragments were so small they passed through the tines, and began slurping up the noodles.

Then he was done, a comfortable warmth in his belly, he padded to his bedroom. Freya was already on his bed, right in the middle. He let the bathrobe drop to the floor and sat, naked, on the bed. He pushed his cat aside and got under the covers in the spot already helpfully warmed, smirking.

Freya got the last laugh, though. She got to curl up on his chest.

Ragnar tried to pet her a bit, thanking her for warming his bed, but he fell asleep within two strokes.

* * *

Three days later found Ragnar in his apartment. He hadn't left it except a single time, to buy groceries. The rest of the time, he'd been holed up in there with an Italian-English dictionary and the Divine Comedy, having decided to finish reading that before borrowing a new book.

But books end, and the Comedy was no exception.

It left him craving more, and he finally found the motivation to leave his home. But it was too late for the local library to be open to return the book, so Ragnar decided to visit a gallery.

The Brera was still open, according to the website, on some sort of special event. Interesting. Further investigation revealed that the 'special event' was the opening night of a temporary collection. One on loan from... Tony Stark?

Ragnar's eyes widened and he jumped from his chair, startling Freya, who had been curled up on his lap. "Sorry," he told his cat, closing his crappy laptop's lid, "but I really gotta see this one." He all but ran to his closet, where he had exactly one good suit, reserved for the opera and for higher-end missions.

As he stripped, he wondered if the owner would be there, giving a speech, and shivered with anticipation.

* * *

Ragnar arrived at the gallery, at nine in the evening. With his long blond hair artfully arranged into lustrous ringlets, his skin well tanned by Italy's generous sun, and eyes artificially blue-grey, he looked nothing at all like the previous versions of himself Tony Stark had met.

Brown haired, brown eyed, boy-next-door, animal lover Mark Lloyd. Fiery, playful, red-headed bartender Lukas Frode. Black-haired, green-eyed, all leather-hunger-menace Loki Odinson. Ragnar had left them all behind like a butterfly left behind its chrysalis. Forced to flee and evolve to hide, time and time again.

If Stark recognized him again, he'd have to find a new face and a new name and a new home. Leave beautiful Italy behind. But for some reason, possibly the fact that Ragnar lived as the butt of an eternal cosmic joke, he kept crossing paths with Stark. He had no doubt that, should he flee yet again, Stark would find him, in a world populated by seven billions mortals, by sheer dumb luck.

Ragnar believed in fate. And if something was pulling Stark and him together with such tenacity, who was he to ignore it?

So he walked into the gallery. Not confidently, but not hesitantly either. Something was going to happen, and he didn't yet know if it would be a terrible or a wonderful thing.

Thirty minutes later found him at the bar, ordering a martini alone. No Stark hovering next to his elbow. No Stark In the whole building, possibly even in the whole continent. The art was his, true, but he cared not for it, Ragnar suspected, unless it was about the fame of the artist or the number on the price tag.

Ragnar hadn't felt this disappointed since the man who'd raised him as his son told him, while he was dangling off a high bridge, that he would never be good enough.

Maybe there wasn't such thing as fate. Maybe all those chance encounters were mere coincidences, nothing more. All those times that Stark had ruined his life had meant _nothing_. And in his need to believe that he was somehow important in the big scheme of things, Ragnar had deluded himself into seeing a pattern in a random arrangement.

The martini appeared under his face.

Sighing, dejected, he reached out to grab it—

Only for it to be snatched by a dainty hand in red nail polish and a tasteful bracelet.

Ragnar turned his head, scowling, ready to pummel the ill-mannered strumpet. "Scusi," he said testily, falling back on politeness automatically, "questo è il mio." Then he froze, recognizing the woman. "Oh, I'm sorry! _You_ can keep it," he blurted, switching to English without noticing, hands fluttering in front of him. "I thought that one was mine." He nodded, conceding the drink.

"No, you are right, it's probably yours," Virginia Potts replied with a smile, her red lipstick making her teeth look extra white and shiny. "My bad." She slid it back towards him.

"Oh, no, I couldn't possibly!" Ragnar exclaimed, returning the glass to her hand. Thinking fast, he added a Scandinavian accent. "Not when you are the one who so selflessly loaned this gallery your beautiful art."

"It's not technically mine," she replied, leaning slightly on the bar. She took the martini without further complaint, sipping it. "It still belongs to Mr. Stark."

Ragnar grinned disarmingly. "But you are the one who curates it, correct? Italy is in your debt." He bowed slightly, a few locks of his hair sliding over his shoulder and hanging in front of his face. He tucked them back behind his ear with a flourish designed to keep people wondering if he was gay or just European.

Miss Potts smiled at him, the corners of her bare-minimum-makeup eyes crinkling. It was nice to have someone recognize her hard work, probably. "You are not from here, are you, Mister…?" she observed leadingly, prompting him to talk about himself.

"Solbakk. Ragnar Solbakk," Ragnar replied. "And no, I am from Norway. Came to Italy to escape the winter, stayed for the art and the food."

She smiled prettily, and asked him something else, also unimportant.

And Ragnar _talked_ , alright. After five minutes of small talk, he got _her_ talking, too. About travel, about Stark Industries, and, later, about Tony Stark himself. Granted, it was mainly noncommittal comments, but he gathered that Tony was still in the good ol' USA, though he had quit Avenging.

Miss Potts was later approached by an Asian man — he still couldn't distinguish people with slanted eyes by nationality very well, but he thought the man might be Japanese, going by the way he bowed at her — who wanted a word with her. "Well, I suppose I should be going," she sighed, like she really mourned having to part from his company. "A pleasure to meet you, Ragnar." She offered him her hand to shake.

Ragnar took it gently and brushed his lips against her knuckles. "The pleasure was all mine, Pepper," he replied, delighting in her blush and the self-conscious way she licked her lips. Had they been flirting? He hadn't noticed. Perhaps because he was so uninterested in her sexually — or anyone, really, now that he thought about it; he should get that checked out.

With one last smile, she turned away and let the Asian man escort her.

Ragnar watched her go, sipping his strawberry daiquiri. It was tasty, and it also served the job of confusing people further on his sexuality. He found it hilarious how hung-up humans were on silly things like what sort of people other people enjoyed sharing their beds with, and watching them trying to pin a label on him was always entertaining.

Miss Potts and the Asian man met up with a larger group of Asians, he observed idly, more focused on one of the man's leather shoes — they were rather gorgeous — than on their faces. When he looked up at last — that was one truly hideous tie, pity they'd matched it with that suit — he startled so badly he almost dropped his glass.

_Yakuza._

Not _any_ yakuza, either: the same ones that, it was rumored, were doing business with the rival of Ragnar's boss' boss. The _exact_ same ones that he'd cheerily evaded, not six days past, in order to leave a mutilated dog and its re-arranged intestines on their client's hotel bed?

What the hell did the Hirai clan — no, their boss, _Fujikawa_ want with the lovely, dainty Miss Potts? Even better, why was one of the Japanese women staring at him? _Why was she breaking from the group and approaching him_?

Ragnar couldn't very well up and leave. It would look suspicious, for one, and for another, he wasn't about to let Tony's beloved friend be pulled into any unseemly business, not when Tony had helped him flee last time. (Granted, he'd been the reason Mark had had to flee in the first place, but then Mark had expected that reaction. The change of heart had been truly heartwarming.)

The woman came to a stop next to the bar, practically standing in the same place as Potts before her. "Mr. Solbakk," she greeted, doing a short bow. She was young, or looked young, now that Ragnar could see her more clearly, and she was wearing a very flattering red dress with no hint of the Orient in it. The slit in the skirt reached to the top of her right thigh.

Ragnar doubted she was merely arm-candy. With a dress like that? No. She was a definitely bodyguard. He tried to recall if her footsteps had made noise or not, but came up empty. "You have me at a disadvantage, Miss…?" he trailed off, prompting.

"Osawa Mai," she replied. Then her eyes did a thing Ragnar would have called a roll on anyone else. "Apologies. I meant Mai Osawa." She performed a small bow.

Not knowing quite what to do, Ragnar returned the bow. He looked at her and noticed a golden glint in her warm brown eyes. Interesting. "Well met, then, Osawa-san," he said, knowing at least that much from having watched Japanese cartoons.

Osawa-san regaled him with a small smile.

Ragnar smiled back, wondering what she wanted, and how to flee without looking terribly rude. Pretend to spot someone he hadn't seen in a long time? No, it wouldn't work; the crowd wasn't thick enough to get lost in. If he were older, he could have faked a heart attack. He sipped his drink awkwardly and glanced at her.

She was still smiling pleasantly.

Had he somehow made a faux-pass? Ragnar blinked and looked away.

"I know what you are," Osawa-san said, out of the blue, in English.

Ragnar jumped at the sudden words. What the hell did _that_ mean? What did she know? That Ragnar was actually a god, fallen from grace? That he was not actually gay? That he wasn't European either? _What?_ "Indeed?" he asked. "Do tell."

"A witch," she replied, her pretty black fingernails clicking on the thick glass of the bar. "That works for the Stidda." She arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him.

Oh, so close and yet so far! Ragnar smirked, safe for now. The image of a certain red-headed assassin crossed his mind, and his smirk dropped. No, it wouldn't do to underestimate Mai Ozawa just because she was a cute girl. "I assure you, Osawa-san, the two are not related at all."

Osawa looked surprised. "No?" she asked innocently — which of course meant she was about to hit him under the belt. "Then you were not the one responsible for the mutilated mutt in Fujikawa-dono's hotel room? Or the one to arrange the guts to curse him with bad luck?"

Ragnar didn't flinch. He merely sipped his almost empty glass and looked at her over the rim.

It was strange that she'd recognized the sigil, as it was a very obscure spell Loki had learned from the Alfar's libraries some five hundred years ago. No — actually, it was _impossible._ She must have _felt_ the bad luck filling the room like a miasma. And for that, she needed to be magical as well.

Magical, and Japanese? Either she was a priestess or—

Ah, there it was again. The golden glow in her eyes, when the light hit her just right. Ragnar was sure that, if there was still a drop of magic left in his blood, he would be able to see the air twisting and rolling behind her back in the shape of writhing tails.

_Kitsune._

He set down the drink. The noise it made was less like glass hitting glass and more like the executioner's ax hitting the cutting block. "And so I am. But it just a little fun on the side — being a mere thug is so dreadfully boring." He smiled at her.

Osawa said nothing. Her face was stone; her eyes flickered gold again.

Ragnar turned to face her, leaning casually on the counter. "You have asked two questions now. It's only fair to answer one of mine." He smirked. "Pray tell, _Osawa-san_ ," he started, moving slighting into her personal space, "how many tails do you have?"

She looked up at him with wide eyes. "You—you know?" she breathed, crossing her arms over her chest in a way that was less defensive and more hugging herself. Her composure broke, and her eyebrows drew up. "Even _they_ have not noticed," she added, still whispering so that Ragnar had to come closer to hear.

"Fujikawa-san and his daughter?" Ragnar enquired, figuring she didn't mean her other Hirai co-workers.

Osawa shook her head. "None of them. Only my direct superior knows." She offered him a half smile. "No one believes in creatures of myth and legend any longer, especially not people of science."

Oh, Ragnar knew the feeling. "If it's any consolation, I still believe because I am a creature of myth and legend myself," he found himself saying absently.

The girl gasped quietly, her eyes locking onto his.

Ragnar's blood ran cold as he realized what he'd just said. Dammit! Why? _What_ could have possessed him to say that? Was it the liquor? He would never drink in public again. "My apologies. Could you pretend you did not hear that?"

She grinned, and he noticed her lower teeth were crooked. And her canines looked oddly sharp. "On one condition." She waited until he nodded, giving her permission to request. " _What_ are you, then?"

And maybe due to the sudden feeling of comradeship, maybe because he was so tired of hiding behind façade after façade, Loki told her.

* * *

The plane that flew back to Japan with the Fujikawas and their hired Hirai thugs carried one extra passenger.

He had extremely short black hair, though one could see a golden tip here and there, like he'd had it dyed blond and had then shorn it, leaving only the roots. His eyes were a brown so dark it looked almost black, except when the light streaming in through the plane's window hit them just right, revealing the warm, chocolate color.

His name was Piotr Kosigan and he was Russian, at least according to his passport, which the Yakuza had falsified for him. He spent the whole of the flight sitting next to Mai Osawa, who had recruited him right from under the Italian's nose, rumor said.

Heads bowed together as they argued in hushed whispers over a piece of paper with weird symbols, they seemed as thick as thieves.

**Author's Note:**

> Not what you were hoping for, I know, I know ;P But trust me on this, I'm setting the scene for the final part, where Tony and Loki meet for third (technically 4th, if you count the movie) time. Besides, this way the series is more symmetrical. Long with porn + short gen interlude + long with porn + short gen interlude + long with porn. Beautiful.


End file.
